Abandon
by rachg82
Summary: Game Six of the World Series - one perfect day in the eyes of a man who never truly got to be a child.


When Booth was very young,  
>he knew how to stand at attention,<br>knew when it was time to lay low, how to creep along walls  
>and crawl through the wreckage of a broken man's dreams.<p>

(The shag carpeting is still there, albeit wavy & blurred now; far away - a tattered white flag at the bottom of a bottle. If you close one eye, you can almost see it.)

He knew without thinking  
>that when none of the above was enough,<br>it would still be his fault.

It was his job  
>to keep the shades drawn<br>and his mouth shut,  
>clearing a caged path for the fallen.<p>

As the unofficial man of the house, he took it in stride.

He had to. There was no use tripping over the facts.  
>There was normal - and then there was Normal.<p>

It was easy to read between the lines.

(Everyone told him what a good boy he was.)

The following morning, he'd bury his bruises beneath the bed,  
>no longer afraid of monsters.<p>

But then, now & again, his dad would lift him up and place him in a red barber's chair-  
>torn vinyl &amp; duct tape around the edges, old men stitched together<br>with aces & jacks & a tall tale or two,  
>that long black cape circling his neck like a superhero-<br>and he would let him spin,  
>stopping him with two big hands across the shoulders<br>like he had it all under control.

And they would watch as their reflection in the mirror stared back  
>at them, knowingly, one generation to the next,<br>and for some reason then it was enough.

For one split second, he was right there with him.

When he sat Seeley down later, told him how things  
>were going to be different now,<br>his son believed him.

He had no reason not to.

He'd been praying, lighting candles,  
>dropping pennies into wells.<p>

Surely, this was the reward he'd been waiting for-  
>the climax of the story,<br>his inevitable happy ending;  
>the meek, at long last, inheriting the Earth.<p>

(Surely, God doesn't lie)

For two straight weeks,  
>he lurked behind corners,<br>hypnotized & wondering.

Was this how it was going to be?

His father, eyes clear  
>and close enough to touch,<br>making breakfast in the kitchen,  
>energetic like a puppy.<p>

He had so much to make up for.

There was no time to waste.

_You won't believe where we're going tonight…_

Two tickets clutched in a shaking hand;  
>if you looked, really looked, you could see the effort it took<br>just for this man to stand.

His children could climb him like a mighty sequoia,  
>swinging from his arms like rowdy lumberjacks,<br>but he'd never felt closer to the ground.

(He'd kept a flask hidden in the cellar - just in case. It was still there, waiting for him.)

When they got to the stadium,  
>Seeley held on to his father's sleeve,<br>tailing him like an eager hawk, afraid to blink.

There was no more than a thin kite string bonding them together,  
>and his father had been slipping away for years.<p>

Eventually, he would lose sight of him completely.

Deep down, he knew this  
>and always had,<br>and so he held on tighter.

Decades later, after the proverbial dust had settled,  
>he would prefer to remember only the simplest of things:<br>the blue seats, the hot dogs, Pete Rose,  
>&amp; The Wave.<p>

_October 21st, 1980. 11:29 pm. Game Six._

He would remember how it was past his bedtime when the Phillies won;  
>how quickly he fell asleep in the car, &amp; how he said<br>he wasn't even tired;  
>the way no one cared<br>when he spilled hot mustard down the front of his shirt;  
>and how it felt to merge with the crowd,<br>thousands strong, standing as one,  
>with just him &amp; his dad at the center-<br>instead of the other way around.

He was nine years old,  
>and this was his one<br>perfect day.

Just that;  
>just them.<p>

Now, as a father himself,  
>no longer so very young,<br>Booth still whispers prayers, still lights candles,  
>and still drops pennies into wells.<p>

Not for the man he struggles to be, or the one he's becoming,  
>but for the one that almost was,<br>and the one he still wishes  
>he could forgive.<p> 


End file.
